


love you now (but not tomorrow)

by a_static_world



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia and Jaskier | Dandelion Go To The Coast, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Pining, Seasonal Affective Disorder, mentioned!, so many feelings, sue me, they mention it, yes there are miley cyrus lyrics in here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:09:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28002927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_static_world/pseuds/a_static_world
Summary: Being in love with a witcher is a strange feeling. Jaskier feels like there’s some sort of coating on his teeth, a film he can’t quite swish away whenever Geralt kisses him quick and filthy in a back-alley. See, loving a witcher doesn’t mean he’ll love you back. Love you now, but not tomorrow, they say.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 10
Kudos: 145





	love you now (but not tomorrow)

**Author's Note:**

> mild tw for a brief description of SAD (seasonal affective disorder) so if you think that will impact you please click away!

Being in love with a witcher is a strange feeling. Jaskier feels like there’s some sort of coating on his teeth, a film he can’t quite swish away whenever Geralt kisses him quick and filthy in a back-alley. See, loving a witcher doesn’t mean he’ll love you back. Oh, sometimes you’ll think he does, when he makes extra sure not to burn your supper or purrs as you scratch his head. In those moments, you’ll feel loved. But a witcher doesn’t love you back because he thinks himself incapable.

Born and bred monsters, witchers. Or at least, that’s what everyone and their mothers will tell you, witchers included. It’s what was whispered to him in taverns and shops, not too long after he began traveling with Geralt.  _ Love you now, but not tomorrow _ , they’d say, and he’d clench his jaw and nod. He’s well aware he’s barely a fly in the witcher’s ointment, albeit a fuckable one. Still. He doesn’t need it rubbed in wherever he goes.

That’s just it. Jaskier’s a grown man, who has been traveling with a witcher for damn near ten years at this point. He’s  _ well fucking aware _ that he’s a casual fuck at best, one that’s doggedly stuck by said witcher’s side until it wasn’t a question of  _ if  _ they’d meet again, but  _ when.  _ His mother always told him he had no self-preservation skills; seems he never grew into them.

Still, it’s hard not to get one’s hopes up. The contracts have been thick and plentiful lately, and for once, Geralt’s coin pouch rattles enough for a bath and two rooms, should they want them. Geralt never asks, though, so Jaskier never answers. They maintain their single-room, single-bed arrangement, neither of them saying a word as they strip for bed each night. 

Sometimes, Jaskier wakes up in the witcher’s arms, even if they didn’t have sex the night before. It’s always early morning, and he knows Geralt is likely awake (and figuring out the best way to extricate himself without waking Jaskier). He takes the moments as they come, though. A little sunrise suffocation never hurt anyone, the crushing weight of a witcher’s arm over his chest forcing feeling into his brittle heart. It’s borrowed time.  _ Better to borrow than steal _ , he thinks. Better to take them when they come than demand them and risk shattering the fragile veil of whatever it is they have going on. 

Tonight, they’re sleeping under the stars. They’re near the coast, and the breeze has an edge to it that suggests winter will soon blanket the Continent. Jaskier shivers in his bedroll, tugging the wool higher around his shoulders and turning his face towards the fire. The heat is half-blocked by a hulking mass of witcher, but Jaskier doesn’t mind; he can’t bring himself to. The changing of the seasons always grows a pit in his stomach, to the point where every conversation feels like a vortex, sucking his energy out. Performing becomes more of a chore and less of an experience, and he longs for his semester at Oxenfurt, drowning his numbness in free alcohol and bad student poetry. For now, the numbness hasn’t quite kicked in, as evidenced by his freezing toes. 

Gods, he loves Geralt. He does. He loves the way the fire flickers in his hair, making it seem half-alive. Loves the slope of his shoulders, the crook of his nose where breaks never quite healed. Loves the scars and loathes the stories behind them, and on and on and on, until there’s no questioning why every song he writes is about the man. It’s achingly obvious, he knows, just like he knows it will be achingly one-sided until he dies. And then Geralt will continue on with his life, the bard a blip in his memory. And oh, gods, people are just going to  _ butcher _ his songs. He’s already heard a polka version of “Toss a Coin,” and the thought of more variations almost make him glad for his impending doom. 

_ Almost, _ because damn it, he’s got a life to live. He’s twenty-seven, not eighty, and there’s things he wants to do. Jaskier suddenly realizes every muscle in his body is tense, and Geralt has stilled beside the fire, almost like he’s expecting him to run. So he makes an effort to relax, breathing deeply until Geralt’s shoulders drop, just a fraction.  _ Okay, think; _ what  _ does  _ he want out of his life?

_ A house on the coast _ , his mind whispers, and Jaskier can envision it, can taste the salt in the wind. A small, clapboard cottage, slightly apart from a cheery village. Garlands of dried fruits in the windows, maybe, and a fresh coat of paint every spring, just because he can. Fresh-baked bread and a firm cheese and a feeling of stability, for once in his goddamn life. A  _ home _ , and his traitorous eyes flick to Geralt’s silhouette. He could have everything he envisioned and more, but something would be...hollow, without Geralt. An utter lack of substance, like a pie without a filling. 

He’s still awake when the fire dies down and Geralt banks it, drags his bedroll closer to Jaskier’s, and tentatively places an arm around his waist. It’s all Jaskier can do not to suck in a breath; Geralt must know that he’s awake, but he doesn’t want to risk spooking him. It’s one of those borrowed moments again, a tenderness that makes Jaskier’s heart swell and throw itself against his ribcage until he’s sure it’s bruised.  _ Wrong to steal, not to borrow _ . 

Geralt’s already awake and breaking camp by the time he stirs. There’s a definite chill in the air, and Roach steams when Geralt lifts the blanket off of her. He gives Jaskier a crooked smile as he stretches, nodding his head towards a pot on the coals. Jaskier’s half-asleep brain tells him to grab it, but he shakes himself before wrapping his hand in a spare undershirt and lifting the lid. Porridge, and it smells good enough that his stomach growls loudly, echoing in the misty clearing. His heart twists, bittersweet as he takes in the sight.  _ Love you now, but not tomorrow, Jaskier. Take it. _

The porridge slides thick and heavy down his throat, and  _ no _ , he won’t let their impending separation and Geralt’s momentary tenderness spoil this for him. He forces himself through the bowl, tapping his spoon on the side with what he hopes will pass as a satisfied sigh. It clearly falls short, because Geralt’s brow furrows, and Jaskier’s heart falters again at the thought that maybe Geralt knows him just as well as he knows Geralt.

“Jaskier?”

“Thank you, witcher dear.  _ Delicious _ , just the thing for a chill morning.”

_ Keep talking, he’ll grow bored and tune out eventually _ .

He doesn’t. Geralt crosses the camp, stopping just short of crowding into Jaskier’s space, head cocked to the side as he continues to blather on. He waits until Jaskier physically has to stop and breathe, and catches the hand he didn’t even realize he’d been gesturing with. Gently.

“Jaskier, I’m sorry if I’ve been...cold.”

Jaskier opens his mouth to answer, but shuts it as Geralt shakes his head. 

“I want...I want there to be something here. Between us.”

Jaskier’s mouth falls open again, this time in shock. Of all the things, all the possibilities- Geralt’s still talking.  _ Focus, bard. _

“-can spend the winter together, if you’d like. Is there… is there anywhere you’d want to go?”

“Can I kiss you?”

Geralt nods, eyes wide, arms already outstretched. Which is good, because Jaskier all but slings himself into them, kissing and walking them back until Geralt’s spine hits a tree. Time seems to pause for them, the noise of the forest drowned out by the rush of blood in his ears. It’s like he stepped into a fae ring and decided to stay, drunk on faerie wine and the taste of Geralt’s lips.

“The coast,” he whispers, and Geralt’s hands tighten on his waist.

The coast it is.

**Author's Note:**

> ah. haha. am back. with the gerask.  
> it's been a rough week for me, so this has been sitting in my "finished" folder for. a week exactly. but i hope you enjoyed!   
> yes i used lyrics from miley cyrus' "plastic heart" but in my defense i love her, so. :p  
> i hope you all are taking care of yourselves- it's a rough world out there, but you deserve good things and mental breaks, ok? come find me on [tumblr](https://astaticworld.tumblr.com/) if you need a chat or a distraction <3  
> as always, be safe, wear your damn masks, and hydrate  
> xoxo static


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